Guarding
by Dreaming Knightess
Summary: The guards and sentries overhear some pretty interesting things. A challenge from one of the members of the Dancing Dove (http:p213.ezboard.combthedancingdove). Re-uploaded


**Guarding**  
  
**A/N**: Challenge from one of the members of the Dancing Dove (Psst! Come and join! Link is in my profile) Reviews are muchly appreciated   
  
**Dedication**: Kes and Violet, my wonderful betas. Thanks so much for your nit-pickiness  
  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters. The wonderful Authoress Tamora Pierce does   
  
I shiver forlornly as I patrol on the walls of Fort Steadfast. Sentry duty is a pain in the arse, especially on damp nights such as these. In fact, the entire week couldn't've been more miserable, with the steady drizzle creating more and more mud. Cursed Scanrans. Don't get me wrong; I'm not afraid or anything—well, maybe a bit—but the point is that they enjoy attacking in the worst weather. Or so it seems to me.  
  
What is that? In my lord's room window? I squint at the outlines of two people. A veritable giant, Raoul, no doubt, and a much shorter woman, Buri, perhaps? The woman's silhouette leans in and kisses him as he—I gulp and hurriedly look away, forcing myself to shift my numbed body so that I am facing a different direction. I would have to slip Raoul an anonymous note tomorrow telling him to use the curtains, or at least to blow out the candles. The thought of his reaction brings a smile to my face.  
  
A quick glance at my magical hour glass indicates that it is 12:33. Another hour and twenty-seven minutes of icy torture to go. I grit my teeth, eyes scanning the ground outside the walls. A movement in the forest alerts my attention. Scanrans? It figures that they would attack at such an inconvenient time. No, just a vixen and her cub, melting in and out of the shadows, and then disappearing again. The Wildmage must be here then, if the foxes had decided to wander so close to the walls of the fort. The arrival of Daine, hmm...that means that Kel would've gotten here today also, shouldn't it? I picture those hazel eyes, with the dreamy lashes, placed over the delicate, freckled nose that I longed to tweak and smother in kisses. No! Focus. This is no time to be fawning over pretty girls. You've a job to do, and besides, she doesn't like you that way, I scold myself. I can't help but remember her dancing eyes when she "scolds" me. Gah! Stupid, traitorous mind! Perhaps pinching myself? Ouch. I wince. Well, at least I know that my fingers aren't completely frozen.  
  
Another few minutes inch by, each minute taking its own blessed time, reveling in my misery. Every second contains an hour and—I groan aloud. If I keep thinking this way, time'll never pass. Gazing steadily at the privy, I realize that I have to go. Badly. I gotta go, I gotta go—  
  
As my bladder reminds me of the four bowls of soup I had thoughtlessly consumed, a dog trots out from the headquarters. Its white coat shines briefly in the foggy moonlight before the dog completely disappears into the kitchens. Moments later, it trots back out again, crooked tail wagging jauntily. So it is Jump, I muse. And he managed to pilfer half of a ham, too. Smart dog. But his owner is more fun to flirt with. Oh, damn. Stop it, stop it, stop it, I order my rebellious mind. I give it a mental slap and shift to a more comfortable position.  
  
Wait a minute! I'm supposed to watch outside the walls, not inside! What the hell've I been doing? I smash my palm into my forehead and face the woods outside the wall again. And I am entreated to instant boredom. Really. Inside the walls is more fun to watch. Guiltily, I glance at the sentry twenty feet to my left. He is diligently doing his duty, so I turn back to the inside.  
  
Two shadows have appeared in the corner between the cistern and the stables, thirty feet below and closest to me. I can hear faint sounds. I lean over and am able to distinguish a few lines of appalling poetry. "...silken hair With eyes of a spirited mare Body with curves like a pear..."  
  
I grimace and back away as far as possible without leaving my post. I thought I'd recognized my cousin's voice. That poor lady. "Curves like a pear"? I'm surprised she didn't slap him. I smirk and decide to end her misery. I rummage in my belt pouch and find a scrap of parchment, along with a stick of charcoal. Hastily, I scribble, "Your poetry is worse than listening to you sing. Spare the poor lady's ears. With love from..." I hesitate at signing my name. It'd be funnier if Meathead didn't know whom it was from. I wrap it around a sliver of beef jerky, take aim, and toss.  
  
"...eyebrows arched and OUCH! What was that?" The taller of the two shadows bends and picks up the note and beef jerky, emerald fire illuminating the parchment. "Your poetry is worse than—HEY!" I can imagine the childish scowl upon his face as he crumples it up and glares in my general direction. Whoops, I'd forgot to disguise my handwriting. The lady, oblivious to their spectator from above, can be heard muttering something as Meathead scans the walls. I duck, but not before I catch a glimpse of the lady's hands; they are clasped in a prayer-like position. I smirk again. Probably thanking the Goddess. After all, to her, the note seemed like it had fallen from the sky. I have to stifle a laugh.  
  
The beef jerky sails back over the wall, landing a few inches to my right. There is a note attached. In glowing green letters, addressed to me are a few words that are rather dirty, and a threatening message: "You will pay for that." Or not so threatening, considering it was Meathead who had made the threat. What is he going to do, force-feed me his nasty teas? I shrug, rapidly scribble "Bring it on, Sir Meathead" at the bottom and throw it (with the beef jerky, of course) at my cousin's back. Right on target. He picks it up, reads it, stuffs it in his pocket and leads his lady back inside headquarters after he gives me one last glare.  
  
Drat, there goes the entertainment. I am again reminded of the pressure on my bladder as I rise from my crouched position. I send a quick prayer to...Wait, is there a privy god? I spend a few minutes trying to figure out if there is one. Turns out there isn't. It's important though; I mean, everyone uses it. I decide that when I died and was going to be judged by Mithros, I would request a god for the privy, for all those poor sentries out there.  
  
Loud voices disturb me from my thoughts. What now? I look over the wall, and see one of the midwives and her lover. Or most likely her ex-lover, from the way she spits at him.  
  
"You dirty little piece of Stormwing dung!"  
  
"Me? Dirty? I'm not the one who never takes a bath!"  
  
"Cheating harlot!"  
  
"I told you it was over, and you continued stalking me!" I wince. Ouch. Her voice is shrill.  
  
Lights rapidly flicker on in the barracks and the headquarters. Heads poke out from the windows.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"What's this?"  
  
"I was sleeping! I have sentry duty next shift!"  
  
"SHUT UP!"  
  
The couple glares, but tones down their argument. Grumbling, the soldiers return to their barracks, lights flickering out once again. I listen to the argument. Same old thing. Woman left man. Man continued following her. Man finds woman in bed with another man. Argument springs up. Can sentry duty get any more boring?  
  
The fight finally ends with the woman kneeing the man in the...ah...lower region, slapping him, and storming back off to the infirmary. The man keels over, clutching the wounded area. For a few moments he lies there, obviously in agony. Finally, he pulls himself up and hobbles back to his barracks.  
  
All right, I was wrong. Sentry duty could get more boring. I stand there, trembling in the northern breeze, trying to tell myself that my bladder was empty. 1:30. Thirty minutes, I can hold it that long. I cross my legs and fervently prayed to the (nonexistent) privy god.  
  
Someone below cackles boisterously. I rush over to look and decide that the lack of sleep has addled my wits. I rub my eyes furiously before looking at the man again. The image remains the same. Lord Wyldon? Lord Wyldon? The Stump? I decide not to question it. A man in a white coat rushes over to Wyldon and tries to hush him. The former training master only proceeds to cackle louder.  
  
"Now, now, Wyldon. Put on this nice, warm coat," he says in a sugary voice.  
  
"Never!" Wyldon leaps nimbly out of the way. "Stone Mountain shall pay for stealing my stockings!"  
  
"Stone Mountain is dead," the man in the white coat says. I can literally see Wyldon deflate.  
  
"My love," he sobs. "What have I done, my love?" I can feel both my eyebrows inching towards my hairline. The man in the white coat had pulls out a vial.  
  
"Drink this. It'll make you feel better," the man reassures him, uncorking the vial. Wyldon drinks it without protest, and almost immediately, snores reverberate throughout the fort. Evidently, the vial has a sedative in it. Wow, I had no idea that he snored. I snigger as the man in the white coat drags Wyldon's prone body back into headquarters. Okay, maybe I was exaggerating when I said that this was the most boring job there could be. This is definitely one of the more interesting nights.  
  
A few minutes later, I can see the second shift of guards coming. Never had they climbed the stairs and made their way to their posts so slowly, mine dragging his feet and appearing to be the slowest one. By the time he got here, I can see the other soldiers on duty with me forming a line in front of the privy. I groan, glare at my relief guard, and hurriedly clatter down the stairs to wait in line.


End file.
